Just a Game
by Iris1
Summary: A weird lil' M&M fic. Read it for some of that rare M&M action. ^-^


  
Genki Greetings and Silly Salutations, minna. Chibi Iris-chan desu.   
^-^ People who have read my previous fics know what this means: this   
is a weird lil' fic. *cough* *cough* Very, very weird. Do not   
read if you do not possess a twisted sense of humour, are homophobic   
or excessively sensitive. 6_6   
  
This is what I would call, one of those rare M&M stories in the SM  
world : Mamoru and Motoki. Hai, I can see half of the readers running  
away right now and the other half staring with swirly Kenshin eyes.   
  
^-^ With that lil' warning above in mind, read on~!   
_______________________________________________________________________  
  
Glossary:  
  
Chigau: Wrong  
Hora: A verbal sound that can mean "look" or "oi"  
Doushite: Why  
_______________________________________________________________________  
  
Just a Game  
By Iris  
_______________________________________________________________________  
  
  
Chiba Mamoru was going to *explode*.   
  
Tiny beads of perspiration dotted the sculpted upper lip of   
his artistically shaped mouth. Tortured molars grinded against each   
other audibly, pearly white teeth gnawing sensually on the fullness of   
his lower lip.   
  
Blood was rushing furiously through his boiling veins at   
heart-attack speed - the hot, vital liquid racing through his tingling   
nerve endings like burning crimson wildfire. His throbbing pulse   
jack-hammered in furious, accelerated time to his galloping heartbeat;  
each taut muscle in his body tensed to the point of snapping, the   
cords of his neck straining, as the sorely tested raven-haired youth   
frantically attempted to prevent himself from losing control.  
  
Impatient, red-hot desire stabbed brutally with intense,  
unforgiving persistence, viciously threatening to splinter the already   
fragile pieces of his tenuous restraint into a million glittering   
fragments of fractured, needle-sharp glass. Low, inaudible hisses of   
ragged breath escaped his lips involuntarily, rigid jaw clenching to   
the point of breaking, each silently rasping gasp for air forced   
reluctantly from his rapidly expanding and contracting lungs.   
  
_______________________________________________________________________  
  
He'd tried.   
  
Nobody could fault him for *not* having strived his hardest to   
curb his ... *unconventional* urges. He'd tried telling himself that  
it wasn't wrong, that he had as much right to enjoy his guilty   
pleasures as any other person, but he had to admit it'd become a ...   
a habit.   
  
Almost ... an obsession.   
  
Perhaps it was simply the lure of the forbidden fruit - the   
intoxicating, delirious feeling of flushed, fevered sin, of straying   
off the usual mundane *rightness* of the straight path, of venturing,  
of exploring into the murky unknown of dangerous shark-infested areas.   
  
And then he'd become hooked.  
  
Addicted.  
  
_______________________________________________________________________  
  
  
It had started off as almost an accident ... a carelessly  
un-intentional event, before developing into mere habit, a minor   
diversion that had added pleasingly dark violet edges to the gray   
monotone boredom of his life.   
Slowly, but almost inevitably, it had inexorably encroached   
upon his unsuspecting mind, silently invading the structure he built  
his routines upon, until it somehow *became* a permanent part of the  
fixture - became the axis of the world that his mind revolved around,   
an addiction that he fought but failed to overcome.   
  
All his half-hearted attempts had withdrawal only had made  
him even more snappy, irritable, restless than before. His usually   
excellent school performance had suffered drastically, grades   
plummeting disastrously to the unprecedented depths of an embarrassing  
B-. A B- ! The nightmares he'd had over the shameful results of that   
last Advanced Physics Paper ! Even the astonished, gloating stares of  
his peers, the disappointed gaze of his professors, and the endless   
cups of fragrant, freshly brewed, deathly-expensive 900 yen coffee   
from Starbucks could not cure the unquenchable thirst, could not  
prevent his thoughts from swirling back to the central object of his   
problem.   
  
Once he'd started, he couldn't stop.   
  
_______________________________________________________________________  
  
  
Thin, beautifully sculpted fingers, that looked as if they had  
been expressly created for creating artistic masterpieces, twitched   
involuntarily in a compulsive movement, trembling with the same fine   
quiver that had consumed his entire body.   
  
He'd left and tried ... experimenting ... practicing with ...   
others, but somehow ... it just hadn't been right.   
  
In the end, he'd come back here, to this place where his best  
friend, the only person who could ... understand the empty, aching void  
inside him, the person who'd been the initiator, the one to introduce   
him to it in the first place, who was patiently waiting, subtly   
beckoning, as if he'd somehow known all along that Mamoru would return,   
unable to resist ... incapable of refusing Furuhata Motoki's ... offer   
to ... *help* ... with his obsession.   
  
Mamoru knew that Motoki was ... experienced .... a *true*   
veteran in all senses of the word, both skillful master and patient   
teacher who'd had plenty of colorful experience, who knew expert tricks   
with his hands that Mamoru had never even heard of ...   
  
Then again ... Motoki had always had the damnedest good luck.   
  
_______________________________________________________________________  
  
  
It slid into the curl of his sweat-slicked palm smoothly, hard   
and firm to the touch.  
  
His already labored breathing turned randomly chaotic, smoky   
blue eyes burning with the fevered passion of a true junkie, glazed   
azure pupils dilating as the slowly accumulated weeks of repressed   
desire threatened to overwhelm his control and sweep his excitement   
over the ever-so-precarious Edge of No Return.  
  
Sensitive ears pricked at the quick intake of hot, raspy   
breath right behind him, the hairs at the back of his neck standing   
on ends, prickling as he felt the pulsing waves of almost tangible   
intensity radiating from Motoki.   
  
" Damnit, you're ... so close, Mamoru-kun ... don't ... stop  
now ... just ... do it ... slowly ... "   
  
The sound of Motoki's voice, excited and breathless, and the  
wispy, ticklishly sensual touch of warm breath lightly titillating   
sensitive skin, so close, was almost enough to send him over the edge.   
  
His grip tightened involuntarily, jerking the shaft downwards  
slightly, and Motoki immediately hissed, every muscle in his body   
tensing as if in unbearable pain. " Chi ... chigau yo, Mamoru ! Not   
.. so ... rough. Do it ... again ... gently ... "   
  
" Go ... gomen ... " Mamoru replied breathlessly, dark brows  
furrowed as he struggled once again to control his rising rampant   
passion and over-eager desire to just ... just ...   
  
_______________________________________________________________________  
  
  
[ Just Do it. ]  
  
Heart pounding ...  
blood burning ...  
breath ragged ...   
  
Thought processes screeched to a traffic-jam grinding   
STOP.  
  
[ To hell with Control. ]  
  
Mamoru went for it.   
  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
  
_______________________________________________________________________  
  
  
[ Fifteen minutes later ]  
  
  
" ..... "  
" ..... "  
" ..... "   
  
[ Silence. ]   
  
" Oh come on, Mamoru. " The lanky, green-eyed blonde had that   
familiar, indulgently patronizing tone in his voice again as he wrapped  
sinewy arms consolingly around the neck of his dark-haired friend in a   
Comforting-Fellow-Guy Head-Lock. " It's not that serious. I mean, even  
I do it sometimes. And I'm a pro. "   
  
" ..... "   
  
[ Silence. ]  
  
" Hora, Mamoru-kun. "   
  
[ Silence. ]  
  
" I'll give you mine if it's THAT important to you. "   
  
.  
.  
.  
.  
  
" I don't want YOURS !! "   
  
[ Screaming. ]   
  
" I want HIM to be MINE !! I WANT HIM !! I WANT HIM !!!   
WHY CAN'T I GET HIM ??!!! DOOOOOUUUUUSHITE ??!! "   
  
[ Swearing. ]   
  
Dozens of curious eyes stared, as the handsome yet obviously   
demented raven-haired youth pounded frantically at the bullet proof   
plastic cover of the plushie-toy crane machine, anguished blue eyes   
fixed unblinkingly at the seemingly unachievable object of his   
desire :  
  
  
The Chibi Tuxedo Kamen Plushie.   
Limited Edition.  
  
  
" Relax, Mamoru. Relax. " Motoki cooed soothingly in his best  
imitation of a maternal tone as he stepped back and patted his student  
on the back, choosing his next words with indolent deliberation.   
  
" After all, it's Just a Game. "  
  
[ Sweatdrop. ]   
  
_______________________________________________________________________  
  
So you've actually reached the end of this fic. Omedeto! Here's a  
blue M&M for your patience and bravery. *opens a empty, sticky hand*  
Oops, guess I've finished them already. :P  
  
I have no idea I was thinking when I wrote this fic ^_- ... and I   
have no idea what you were thinking when you read it either ... well  
... not a very clear picture anyway.   
  
Cue a Chibi-Iris runnning past waving a banner that says "Hentais!!"   
  
Iris @_@ [ sweatdrop! ] : Ignore that chibi behind the screen.   
  
This weird lil' fic is dedicated to all the wonderful group of people   
who helped pre-read this story. Especial thanks to Cherry Pie, Lyaka  
and SMD. Domo arigatou gozamashita!  
  
All comments are deeply appreciated at kanzaki_yukiko@yahoo.com.   
^_- Comments, people, comments!  
  
_______________________________________________________________________ 


End file.
